A few days ago we got back from a trip to Maine. The state definitely has a certain style. After my third visit there I’ve decided the best way to sum it up is “conservative hippy.”
When we visit we stay with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, who live in a very remote town. So remote it has about 4 stores in what would be considered “downtown.” They live in a beautiful wood, multi-story house with a long row of large windows overlooking the lake, which is literally their backyard. It always feels so strange to me, coming from Los Angeles, that they leave their doors unlocked and their car keys in their unlocked cars. Zero crime is so foreign to me.
One of my favorite things to do on our Maine stays is to visit one particular used bookstore. The owner is the only employee. Really nice guy, in his late 60s or early 70s. My sister-in-law said he used to live in Greenwich Village in the 70s. His daughter has her own used bookstore in another small, neighboring town.
Whenever I ask him where he keeps a certain genre, he’ll tell me where it is in the store but he’ll also go into this back room and come out with several books from that genre for me to look at. What’s it look like back there? I always wonder.
The first time I went to this bookstore on this recent trip, I went with others and had barely gotten started before they wanted to leave. (I can be in a bookstore for hours). Well my sister-in-law, who also has three kids (hers are grown), understood how special it would be for me to go back alone for much longer. So she helped me arrange a day and time to use her car to do that. (What a true gift!)
Well that was pure heaven for me. The store is everything you would hope for in a small town used bookstore, which was an old home converted into a store. Lots of wood, two stories, multiple rooms, and lots of nooks and crannies for burrowing into with a stack of books. A pleasant damp, humid smell wafted in from the rainy day outside and mixed with the wood. In many areas, especially upstairs, there were books piled on the floor in front of the shelves. I’m not sure if the owner simply hadn’t had time to put these on the shelves yet, or if there simply wasn’t room for them. I think it was a bit of both. Each one of the steep wooden steps creaked when you stepped on them.
I made my way into the bookstore, which also sells old vinyl. I picked up the original-cover Hair soundtrack for my brother-in-Law and The Power of Water by Emoto (an amazing book!) for my sister-in-law. Of course if I hadn’t seen that book in the store, I may never have thought to get it for her, but it’s absolutely perfect for her. The magic of used bookstores!
My sister-in-law had also pointed me to another small town with a tiny downtown (3-4 short blocks on one street) in which I could check out antique/vintage stores and other Maine-y boutiques. (One was called Fiber and Vine, which sold about half wines and half yarns for crafting, the theme apparently tied together by the owner’s love of both). It was pouring rain the entire time I walked down the “strip” and I only had canvas sneakers on, which were completely soaked, but I barely noticed because I was so happy to be exploring—on my own—in such a quaint little town.
Driving anywhere in remote areas is a real challenge for me because I’m so orientationally-challenged, and the country roads and highways can all start looking the same, not to mention the sparing use of stoplights makes it easy to miss small street signs. But somehow I made it back. And it was such a lovely experience that I just had to document it here.
